quite right. Clearly anybody stuck out here in this field is a goddamned fool.”
A few men chuckled nervously. The rest flinched as another Polish salvo landed only a couple of hundred meters away. German artillery rounds howled overhead in an eerie counterpoint.
Willi watched the smoke screen billowing higher and higher above the peaked roofs of Rynarzewo and nodded in satisfaction. It seemed dense enough now to blind any Polish artillery spotters stationed there. Once he got these men out of the killing zone and closer to the enemy’s own positions, the Poles would have a hard time adjusting their fire to hit them again.
He looked at the young officer who had yelled at him. “What’s your outfit, Captain?”
“B Company, Herr Oberstleutnant.”
Willi studied the frightened faces turning his way. Words alone would not be enough to move these men forward into enemy fire. Stunned by heavy casualties and the incessant shelling, they were too near the breaking point. They needed an example — his example.
So be it. Rank should not confer immunity from risk. He climbed to his feet and stood motionless for several moments, ignoring the explosions plowing the earth alt around. He wanted them all to see him. Then he raised his voice to carry above the barrage. “All right, B Company! On your feet! Up! Up! Up!”
Led by their captain, soldiers began scrambling upright. In ones and twos at first. Then in larger numbers as the force of example spread. Officers and NCOs in the battalion’s two other companies saw what was going on and started urging their own men up, too.
Von Seelow held up his rifle and pointed toward the Polish village, now all but invisible through the dense, man-made haze. “We’re going forward,” he shouted. “We’re going into that town. And we’re going to take that damned bridge. Now follow me!”
Without waiting for a response, he swung into a fast walk and headed for Rynarzewo. Neumann fell in at his side, pacing him. Only Willi could hear the diminutive radioman muttering a simple childhood prayer over and over. He found his own lips forming the same heartfelt words. “Oh, God, keep me safe. Oh, God, make me strong.” Another, older part of him added, “And give these men the courage they need to come after me.”
His prayers were answered. With a ragged cheer, the soldiers of the 192nd Panzergrenadier Battalion surged forward, passed him, and plunged into the smoke.
Half the village was on fire. Columns of thick black smoke from burning buildings blended with the lighter gray mists spawned by the German artillery shells. Wrecked vehicles dotted the streets. Some were surrounded by sprawled corpses. Others seemed undamaged but were abandoned.
From his vantage point at one of the post office building’s barricaded windows, Captain Konrad Polinski caught signs of movement down by the river and stared intently through the drifting haze. There! The wind tore a small hole in the smoke, and he saw German soldiers dashing from one house to the next, firing from the hip. The Germans were inside Rynarzewo! Worse, he and the rest of his troops were cut off from their only way back across the Notec River.
Sick at heart, he turned to his radioman. “Get that engineer CO now!”
“Major Beck, sir.” The corporal passed him the headset.
“What do you want, Captain?” Beck asked. The commander of the combat engineers sounded understandably worried. If the Germans broke through Polinski’s defenses, his men would be dangerously exposed to enemy fire.
“Are your charges laid yet?”
“Almost. We need another five minutes.”
A German machine gun opened up somewhere outside the post office, sending rounds tearing through the windows. Polinski dropped behind a solid oak reading table, seeking cover. He kept his grip on the headset. “Hell, Major, you may not have five minutes!”
Willi von Seelow crouched beside a second-story window in a ruined house on the river. He could see the span perfectly from here. He could also see the Polish engineers busy rigging the bridge for demolition. More and more of them were peeling away, running toward the north end and safety as they finished their work.
He and his troops were too late. Although they were just two hundred meters from their objective, they might as well be on the far side of the moon. The Poles were going to blow the Rynarzewo bridge, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop them.
The radio on Neumann’s back caught his eye. He still had one desperate card left to play. “Contact Striker One,” he ordered.
When the brigade artillery commander’s voice came on line, von Seelow took the mike Neumann offered him. “Striker One, this is Top Cat. I have a priority fire mission.”
“Go ahead, Top Cat. My guns are standing by.”
Willi keyed the mike. “Target location is the center span of the Rynarzewo highway bridge. Troops moving in the open.”
“Understood, Top Cat. Wait one.”
Von Seelow crouched by the window, watching the Polish combat engineers working with mounting impatience. Come on, come on, he silently urged his distant gunners. We’re running out of time.
The radio crackled again. “Shot, over.”
A single shell, a spotting round, howled overhead and exploded in an open field just across the Notec.
Willi clicked the transmit button and yelled, “Shot, out. Drop one hundred meters and fire for effect!”
“Oh, my God.” Major Zbigniew Korytzki stared fixedly at the bridge, watching in horror as five German artillery shells fused to burst in midair exploded just above the unprotected engineers.
Thousands of razor-sharp fragments whirred outward from each explosion, striking bridge concrete, the water, and human flesh with murderous impartiality. Men who survived the first salvo were cut down by a second and then a third. When the shelling finally stopped, corpses lay heaped one on top of another across the span. Many of the dead combat engineers were so shredded and torn that they looked more like piles of bloody rags than human beings.
The major felt his hands starting to shake. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to see this kind of butchery. Acid-tasting bile rose in his throat. His long-held beliefs were being proved right. Being so close to the battlefield only clouded a commander’s judgment and made logical decision-making almost impossible.
With an effort he pulled his gaze away. German soldiers were visible along the riverbank now, sprinting from building to building as they drew closer to the bridge approaches. Polish machine guns and assault rifles crackled in the distance. Korytzki shook his head sadly. A few of C Company’s isolated squads were still fighting, but they were doomed by the enemy’s superior numbers and firepower.
He swept his binoculars through an arc. Movement just beyond the burning village caught his attention. German Leopards were advancing, rolling forward through the lingering smoke. Forward toward the bridge. Forward toward
Korytzki froze for several precious seconds, unable to think past the possibility of his own death.
When he could move again, he whirled around, leaning far out over the side of his BMP to see where the commander of the slaughtered combat engineers knelt. His eyes focused on the gray metal detonator box beside the man. “Major Beck!”
When the tall, bespectacled engineer officer looked up, Korytzki could see tears staining his cheeks.
“Blow the bridge!”
Beck stared back at him as though he’d gone mad. “But what about your men, Major? What about your troops across the river?”
“My men are dead, Major. Just like yours,” Korytzki snarled. He jabbed a finger toward the river. “Now, blow that fucking bridge!”
Slowly, almost as though he were moving against his own will, the engineer reached out, took hold of the detonator box, and turned the key.
The Rynarzewo highway bridge disappeared in a rippling series of explosions that raced the length of the span. A dense smoke pall cloaked the scene, lit from within by several more bright white blasts as secondary
